A Boy Called Robin
by daphno
Summary: A young Robin Hood sits alone in Sherwood, struggling to come to terms with his first "real" outlaw behaviour. Short and sweet!


**Just a short little one-shot centering around a young Robin has he struggles to deal with his new life as an outlaw. A nice few references to the legends for the hardcore fans, as well as a bit of Nottingham geography in there for old times sake! Anyway, I imagined Robin to be about 18 in this, and very doubting of himself. Not the usual hero you're used to seeing :P**

**Anyway, enjoy!**  
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He was doing the rounds of the birch trees when it happened. Nothing heavy going, just standard two-hours-after-dawn scouting of the invisible border he'd drawn around what, in these past few months of blessed isolation, he'd come to know as his "territory". A blood-red vixen had birthed her cubs overnight and hissed in his direction when he approached. The nest of peregrines he'd been watching with gape-mouthed and boyish intrigue had lost its perch on the highest branch; he found the week-old chicks on the leafy floor, curled into sad grey husks. All of these things he marked on his map, scrawled with flintstone into the large oak tree at the centre of his territory. "The Great Oak" he liked to think of it as, for it was surely the largest tree he'd seen in all his years of scouting forests as old as Sherwood.

And then of course, it happened. He'd made a few wrong choices in his life, most of which the entire populace of his hometown had turned into a glorified myth to light the tales of every ambitious young boy in Nottingham. However, he couldn't help but feel that this of all mistakes was the most cavalier.

A rosewood chest, hardly impressive to the unknowing eye, containing a healthy burden of gold and silver coins and little gold buttons to be sewn onto coats; gilded edges that could be blazoned onto wine cups with a careful hand and little coasters inlaid with embroidery from a French nunnery; rings with tiny diamond crystals and of course the silver-patterned arrowheads that had attracted him in the first place. The little chest bore the Sherriff's official seal and had been a gift from some old friend in Spain or, now that Robin thought about it, possibly Brittany. Stolen, of course, and so Robin had hardly hesitated to grab it for his own. Now though, in a sudden change of heart, the cloud of spontaneity burnt out and he only found himself wanting rid of this chest: it was a sure and simple way to get him incarcerated in the dungeons if caught.

He was new to being an outlaw. He'd only really been making a proper effort for a few months, and even that was just the result of loneliness. Loneliness and boredom, Robin had come to learn, were enough to drive even the most law-abiding men to crime. Life-endangering crimes, he mentally added, as he shuffled the rosewood chest between his leathered feet. It had been half a year since he'd spoken with another person, truly spoken, not hurried words to a fellow dungeon escapee in the pitch of night. It had been half a year since decent meals, and warm bed sheets, and the little fire in the old tavern inn where the folk would flock to hear his tales of war glory. Fictionalised accounts, of course, for a boy as cowardly as Robin Hood of Loxley would never have gone to war in the east.

Robin sat cross legged before the chest. The folk in the Inn had found new stories about him to tell, every bit as false as his Holy War tales, but incredulous as anything he'd ever heard before. _A real hero_, they called him, _that Robin lad_. _A true gentleman. He robs from the rich and gives to the poor._ Even Marian's father had called him 'dear boy' when they had heard of his stealing the rosewood chest.

That had been yesterday, and today Robin sat eyeing the object of his guilt: the chest that he'd stolen with impressive ease from the King's Guard as they curried it up the Great North Road to Nottingham centre. He'd left the men alive, but dizzied and bloodied. He planned to keep the chest for himself, and why not? The forest was so short of riches and decorations, and silver-patterned arrowheads were the stuff of legend. Yet he was torn: the men at the Inn had praised his good deed, had cheered at this imaginary chalk-mark against the Sherriff, and Marian's father had led the toast to 'my Robin'. They toasted Robin Hood – the boy who steals from the rich and does not keep for himself.

Robin shivered a little in the post-dawn rain that appeared everyday this time of year. He eyed the forest around him with distanced resentment – he was young, and parentless, and he had not imagined spending his eighteenth autumn in the world amidst the dying birches of old Sherwood.

He clapped his hands together and hoisted himself up using a little jutting branch from the nearest tree. He gathered the chest up beneath his hooded cloak and cleared the tracks behind him as he sludged through the undergrowth. There was a girl and her father in Edwinstowe who would know what to do with the chest and – who knew – if he was sweet enough, perhaps they'd let him keep the arrowheads? Robin huddled into his cloak, inwardly glad of the upcoming conversation he'd have with old friends, even if it would be a rebuttal. Eyes skywards, he couldn't help but think that living in the forest alone was terribly lonely. Perhaps he ought to find himself a gang…?

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**Ouch, the ending was cheesy. But forgive me! :P**

**Anyway, add to faves if you liked it, and drop me a review if you want :)**

**Special ginger cookies if you do :D**

**xx Thanks for reading, peace out.  
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